by John Oram
Morgan signaled to the man in the white coat. The sound of the motor died to its original low humming. The stream of notes stopped.
Morgan picked the top dozen from the pile and splayed them fanwise. "You see? They are numbered individually — but not consecutively. When they go into circulation there'll be no chance of putting a warning out to block a series. The numbering is quite random."
"Very clever," Illya said. "It's almost a pity your boss will be picked up before the scheme has time to get under way."
"If he is," Morgan retorted surprisingly, "it won't matter. He's expendable, like the rest of us. What gave you the idea he was heading the operation?" He motioned toward the door. "You've seen all there is to see. It's time I put you to bed."
As they passed the man in the white coat he grinned and invited, "Come again."
"We should live so long," Blodwen said gloomily.
They went out through the hall and the kitchen into the yard.
Rafferty asked, "The usual?" and Morgan said, "Where else?" He led the way across the yard to the brick-built barn and opened the door. There was a warm smell of cows and hay. The concrete floor was newly washed.
A heavy oak door was set into the far wall of the barn. Morgan unlocked it and stood aside. Rafferty said, "In!" It seemed to be his favorite word. He jabbed Illya in the back with the muzzle of the tommy-gun. Illya stumbled over the threshold, almost sending Blodwen sprawling. The door slammed behind them and the key turned in the lock.
Blodwen looked around her. She said, "Charming, though perhaps a bit austere."
The chamber in which they were standing measured about ten feet by eight. Walls, ceiling and floor were smooth concrete and the inside surface of the door was a sheet of steel. There were no windows. The only light came from a low-wattage bulb behind a thick glass cover set into the ceiling. There was no furniture of any kind. The air smelled cold and damp.
Illya ran his hand down the wall. His fingers came away wet. He said, "If they keep us here long they won't need to send in the execution squad. We'll die of pneumonia."
"You say the nicest things," Blodwen told him. "I like a man who looks on the bright side." She rubbed the poodle's head. "I wish I had some food for this animal. The poor little soul must be starving."
Illya looked at his wristwatch. "It's half after one. I don't think they intend to bring us lunch, somehow."
"Ah, well. We mustn't expect too much. After all, like the man said, we're expendable."
He glanced at her, puzzled. "You seem to be taking things remarkably lightly."
She shrugged. "Not much point in doing anything else, is there? The next move is up to them." She took off her jacket, folded it as a cushion and settled herself as comfortably as could be expected in a corner of the cell. She said, " I wish that little horror in the blue jeans hadn't taken my handbag. I'm dying for a cigarette. You wouldn't have one, I suppose?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Never mind. It's a killing habit." She clasped the poodle tight and closed her eyes. Illya, looking down on her, thought she looked unbelievably young.
She slept for three hours. Then Illya shook her gently. She sat up, instantly alert. "What is it?"
"Somebody's coming."
She listened, heard the faint sounds of approaching footsteps. "Good!" she said. "It's time Dolly did her parlor trick. Let's hope it comes off."
She unbuckled the poodle's jeweled collar and tugged at it. The buckle came away from the strap, exposing a length of fine steel wire. She shook out her jacket and spread it over her knees, putting her hands holding the wire beneath it. As the key turned in the lock she slumped over, suddenly the picture of dejection.
The door opened and the teenager came in. He carried a tray with two tin mugs of tea and a plate of sandwiches. "You better make the most of it," he said. "It's all you'll get tonight." He looked at the girl huddled in the corner. "What's wrong with her?"
She gasped, "I'm ill."
"Too bad." He sneered. "I'm no bloody doctor."
She said painfully, "There must be someone."
"Not here, there ain't. You'll just have to suffer."
She looked up, pleading. "Well, can you give me a cigarette? Maybe that will ease the pain."
"Yes, I can manage that." He took a packet of Players from his jacket pocket and threw a cigarette into her lap. She picked it up, put it in her mouth, and put her hand back under the jacket, shuddering as if with cold. She said weakly, "I don't have a light."
"A proper little nuisance, aren't you?" He produced a lighter, flicked it into flame, and bent over her.
Her hands came up swiftly, expertly twisting the wire around his neck. He made a retching sound. His tongue came out and his eyes bulged. Illya completed the demolition with a swinging right to the jaw. The teenager fell forward in a heap.
Blodwen wriggled from under him and grabbed the poodle, which was yapping shrill encouragement. She said, "Nice work, pardner. Now all ashore that's going ashore. I think we've outlived our welcome."
They raced to the outer door of the barn. Illya peered out cautiously. The yard was empty. He said, "The boundary wall is on your left, about a hundred yards away. Keep low and sprint for it. The quicker we're among the bracken, the better."
Blodwen tucked the poodle under her arm like a parcel. She said, "Right, men! Hold on to your hats."
They ran.
They got across the yard unseen and scrambled over the wall. They were fifty yards up the hillside when there came a rattle of machine-gun fire and a bullet sang past Illya's ear like a hornet. He looked back over his shoulder. Rafferty was pounding across the yard from the house. Behind him were Morgan and the man in the white coat. Another man was racing toward the hill at a different angle.
Illya said, "Keep going. Our only chance is to lose them in the high fern."
"You believe in fairies, too?" Blodwen panted.
Another burst of slugs thudded into the ground uncomfortably close. She said, still struggling upward, "He's getting the range. It won't be long now."
"Save your breath," Illya advised. "And try to zigzag."
She said, "I haven't got enough troubles?"
They forged on, the stiff bracken stems whipping and cutting at their faces. The growth was getting thicker, affording them more protection, but the going got tougher by the minute. To add to their difficulties the short grass beneath the fern was slippery as a ballroom floor.
Illya risked another backward glance. Rafferty, legs straddled, was steadying himself for another burst. As he brought the tommy-gun up to position, a shot cracked from somewhere higher up the hill. Rafferty stumbled and went down slowly as if he were praying.
Three more shots came from the hidden marksman. The man in the white coat screamed and clutched his shoulder.
"Dear me!" Illya said mildly. "Now where did the Seventh Cavalry spring from?"
"Whoever it is, he's tucked away somewhere above us and to the right," Blodwen said. "We'd better try to reach him."
The gun cracked again. It sounded neared. Illya said, "Sit tight. He's coming this way."
They waited, listening to the sounds of somebody moving through the fern. After a while the bracken above them parted.
Solo said, "Having fun, my children?"
Blodwen smiled prettily, "How nice of you to drop in. Do you come here often?"
"Only for the shooting. And by the way, you'd better have this." He handed Illya a Luger pistol.
Illya hefted it, testing the balance. He said gravely, "Thank you. I was feeling underdressed." He sighted and pressed the trigger. A spurt of rock flew from the wall an inch from where Morgan was crouching. The Welshman's answering shots were wild.
"Next time," Illya said. He aimed carefully and fired. Morgan pitched sideways and lay still.
"That leaves one," Blodwen commented.
"If he has any sense, he'll keep going," Solo said. "I think it's time we moved in."
"Too late!" Illya poi
nted to the gray bulk of Cwm Carrog. Smoke was pouring from the upper windows. And as they watched the roof collapsed in a sheet of flame. Almost in the same instant a black Vauxhall nosed out of the garage and headed for the main drive at top speed.
"There goes Mr. Price Hughes," said Blodwen. "Ah, well! Back to the drawing board."
Chapter Eight
Solo and Illya parked the Cortina in an all-night garage off Leicester Square. They walked up Charing Cross Road past the Underground station, crossed the road and entered ill-lit Newport Street. About halfway down on the right-hand side a scarlet neon sign read GLORIANA. DANCING.
Illya looked at it doubtfully. He asked, "You sure this is the place?"
"That's what the number says," Solo confirmed. "The place is on the first floor. There's probably another way in."
A painted girl in a uniform of sequins eyed them from the doorway of the club. She switched on a mechanical smile and said, "You coming in, boys? Lots of girls and all very friendly." She looked about fifteen.
Illya said, "Not tonight. We're busy."
"Some other time, eh?" She returned indifferently to buffing her finger nails with a grubby handkerchief.
A plain street door adjoined the club. Above the letter-box a square board carried the message in gold letters: NEW BEGINNINGS, FIRST FLOOR, GO STRAIGHT UP.
"This is it," Solo said. He pressed against the wood. The door held firm.
Illya crossed the street, looked up and came back again. He said, "No lights showing anywhere."
"Fine!" Solo took a length of metal from his pocket, inserted it into the keyhole and twisted. The lock clicked back. They slipped quickly into the musty-smelling hallway. Solo shut the door and pressed the button of his flashlight. The beam played over walls that needed repainting and came to rest on linoleum-covered stairs.
They stood listening for a few moments. Only the sounds of traffic outside disturbed the stillness. They went forward cautiously.
The stairs ended at a short landing. A door in the wall was marked: NEW BEGINNINGS. KNOCK AND ENTER.
"We won't bother to knock," Solo said. He tried the handle. It turned in his hand and the door opened. Reflected light from the uncurtained windows lit the room grayly. It was a small office, furnished only with a plain table, a filing cabinet and a couple of hard-seated chairs. A calendar from a religious publishing house hung over the filing cabinet. Above the mantelpiece of the empty grate there was a text that promised: "All things are possible to him that believeth."
Solo went over to the filing cabinet. It was unlocked. He went through the drawers rapidly. They contained nothing but case-histories of pathetically inept villains.
He said, "There's no joy here. It's obviously where Price Hughes interviewed the customers. Let's try up top.
Another stairway almost opposite the office led up to a white-enameled door. It had two locks that made Solo wince. He said, "These are going to be difficult." While Illya held the flashlight he worked on them with picks of a dozen designs. After five minutes he stood back, defeated.
Illya said consolingly, "You could always try a ferret."
"It could come to that. But we'll try brute force first." Solo lifted his right foot and turned the rubber heel on the shoe. He removed two plastic capsules from the cavity underneath, pinched the ends to points and inserted them in the keyholes of the locks. He said, "Stand clear," flicked a cigarette lighter and tipped the flame to the capsules. They went phutt! like damp cherry bombs. The door sagged and swung open.
The flashlight beam lit up a hall in almost shocking contrast to the office below. The floor was covered with thick carpet in a rich deep blue. The walls, like the door, were enameled white, with panels of glowing tapestry. A Regency sofa-table held a bowl of exquisite Chinese workmanship.
Illya said, "It looks like this is where the New Beginnings really start. You know, like charity begins at home."
Three doors opened off the hall. Solo pushed through the first, then whipped out fast. He pulled the Luger from his shoulder holster and flattened against the wall, signaling to Illya to douse the light.
In the darkness Illya moved silently over the carpet to his side. "What gives?" he whispered.
"There's a gang in there," Solo breathed. "About a dozen of them."
They waited tensely. Minutes passed, but the silence remained unbroken.
Illya whispered, "They're keeping mighty quite. Should we stir them up?"
"Hold it!" Solo's hand, moved carefully up the door jamb, found the light switch and depressed it. A soft pink glow flooded through the doorway. Nothing else happened.
Solo stepped forward, gun ready, and stared into an empty bathroom. Then he burst out laughing. "Brother!" he exclaimed. "How kinky can you get?"
The four walls and ceiling were covered completely with small squares of mirror glass which reflected his figure a thousand times. It was those images, seen like shadows in the light from the flash, which had made him bolt for cover.
Illya said wondering, "Now I've seen everything. Will you look at the marble bathtub and the gold-plated dolphin taps?"
"And the celluloid ducks," Solo grinned. "Imagine the pride of Cwm Carrog sitting there, playing with those."
"Must I? Let's find something less Freudian."
The second door opened into the sitting room. Solo crossed to the windows, pulled the heavy velvet curtains and switched on a standard lamp. Like the hall, the room was decorated and furnished richly and with good taste. Two or three antique pieces blended comfortably with the modern armchairs and long settee. A Steinway piano stood at an angle to the windows. The walls were hung with Durer engravings in slim black frames.
Solo looked at the smooth, meticulously arranged cushions on the chairs and settee. He walked to the piano and ran a finger over its surface. It came away with a thin film of dust. He said, "It looks as though nobody has been in here for weeks."
"Or as if everything has been stage-managed," Illya amended. "The place is too tidy."
He pulled open the drawers of a Georgian bureau. They were all empty. "You see? It isn't reasonable. Everybody leaves a few papers around, even if they are only old bills."
"Could be," Solo admitted. "We'll take a look at the bedroom."
Their search there was equally unrewarding. The gold satin cover on the bed was uncreased. The pillows and sheets beneath it might have been new. Silver-backed toilet articles stood in geometrically perfect array on the walnut dressing-table. Only a row of hangers occupied the wardrobe. There was not even a smell of mothballs.
Solo said, "You're right. It doesn't add up. Somebody's tried to arrange the impression that the old man's flown the coop. But it's too perfect." He pointed to the silver gleaming on the dressing table. "If he had time to pack all his clothes and all his papers, he'd have taken those things, too. Ever see a bald-headed man travel without a hairbrush?"
"And they're valuable, too. Do you think he rigged it himself?"
"Unlikely."
"Then who?"
"I don't know — but we're going to find out. And as openers I think we'll pay a call on Gloriana downstairs.
The kid in the sequin uniform was still at the doorway of the club. She said, "Changed your mind, boys?"
"It's the gypsy in us," Illya said.
They went through a foyer that was a mixture of Tenth Avenue and the Taj Mahal. A cloakroom girl dressed in a grubby sari said, "That will be one guinea each, gentlemen."
"What for?" Illya asked.
"For the hats."
"We never wear hats."
"Too bad, ducks. It'll still cost you a guinea."
They paid and pushed open swinging doors emblazoned with scarlet dragons.
The big room beyond had the kind of lighting that is called discreet. It was fighting a losing battle against the swirling clouds of tobacco smoke. The only bright spot was the cone of light that picked out the three-piece combo of piano, guitar and bass. Half a dozen couples were moving like sleep-wal
kers on the pocket-size dance floor. The rest of the customers sat drinking at formica-topped tables, each with its own dim, scarlet-shaded lamp.
As Solo and Illya stood inside the door, letting their eyes get accustomed to the gloom, a man in a dinner jacket came toward them. He was young, of middle height, with broad shoulders tapering to a thirty-two-inch waist. His straight black hair was glossy with Brylcreem, but his good looks were spoiled by a knife scar that extended from right ear to chin. He looked like a Greek Cypriot.
"A table, gentlemen?" he asked.
Solo said, "We'd like to talk to your boss."
The professional smile stayed put but the brown eyes grew wary. "Are you from the police?"
"No. Should we be?"
"I thought..." He let it tail away. "I am afraid Madame is busy. May I ask why you wish to see her?"
Solo said definitely: "You may not. Just tell her it's private. We won't keep her more than a few minutes."
"Very well. If you will take a seat. A drink, perhaps, while you are waiting?"
"Scotch. On the rocks."
"Certainly." He went to the small bar that stood near the band dais, gave the order, then disappeared through a curtained doorway at the back of the room.
A girl wearing nylon fishnet tights and a bodice that ended almost where it began brought the drinks.
Illya asked, "Compliments of the house?"
She said, "Don't make me larf. It cracks me make-up. That'll be thirty bob."
Illya stared glumly into the half-inch of liquid in his glass. "I don't doubt that Madame is busy," he said. "She's probably arranging a takeover bid for Fort Knox."
The man in the dinner jacket came back. He said: "Madame will see you now. If you will come this way..."
They followed him through the curtained doorway and up three green-carpeted stairs to a door marked "Private." He knocked, turned the door handle and stood back for them to enter.
The room was more like a boudoir than an office. The walls were covered with expensive hand-blocked paper featuring pagodas, bamboos and small Chinese figures. The Chinese carpet was white and vividly flowered. There was a black lacquered table, heavily ornamented in gold, on which a slim vase held a single crimson rose. A black and gold cabinet, intricately carved, stood against the far wall. Sandalwood joss sticks smoldered before an ivory godling with a face of incarnate evil.
